


Not At All a Grinch

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, The Sentinel Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: Blair isn't just interested in the dissertation-worthy things about Jim.





	Not At All a Grinch

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the 'extras' for the 2017 TS Secret Santa, since I wasn't up to anything as planned as writing for the actual exchange this year. Ainm is a gift to the fandom for keeping her Christmas comm going. :-)
> 
> This wee snippet is very gently edited from its original post. It's always the way.

Jim didn’t seem to ‘do’ Christmas decorating. He wasn’t a Grinch, not at all. There was a small, artificial wreath on the loft’s entrance door and a few Christmas cards neatly presented on shelf space, even though there was no tree or tinsel. “Carolyn took the decorations,” Jim had told Blair, laconic and apparently uncaring, maybe just a little too uncaring. There were always coins and bills for the men and women standing on Cascade’s chilly streets touting for charity. Jim uncomplainingly contributed to the Bullpen Secret Santa and the PD Toy Drive. When he did complain about scented candles and inane Christmas music he kept it to a low rumble.

No, not a Grinch, but the tinsel star hanging from the handle of one of the kitchen cupboards was up for nearly a week before Blair realised it was there. It wasn’t actually that small; if Blair had taken it down and laid it on his palm its spindly points would have stretched across his hand. But it was indeed spindly, a spidery, tired star, its tinsel worn and dull. The tiny foil rosette at its centre was a touch ragged. There was a story behind that star, and Blair bided his time for the right moment to ask about it.

Jim, of course, caught Blair looking at it and acknowledged the light of curiosity with a long-suffering, amused shake of the head.

“It belonged to my Grandmother – Grammy. My mother’s mother.” Blair noted the formality of ‘mother’ and then nodded encouragingly. “Mom cleaned out Grammy’s house after she died, and I might have sneaked it home.”

“Special memories?”

“Grammy always said I could have it one day, but my mother… she was all, ‘what do you want with that old trash, Jimmy?’ We were keeping the good silverware and the dinner set, after all. What else did we need?” The quiet nostalgia twisted into bitterness. “Sometimes I think she and Dad were better suited than they realised.”

Blair sat poised for more revelation, presumably a little too obviously because Jim’s mouth snapped shut. “So now you know, Chief. Just my Grammy’s old Christmas tree star.”

“Hung somewhere it’s most often in your line of sight,” Blair said, and got a sharp look from Jim. Oh come on, he thought. I do notice things that aren’t dissertation worthy, Ellison.

“Yeah,” Jim said, and nothing more. He shrugged. “If you wanted to put anything up for the holidays…” He paused, obviously wondering if he was treading on dangerous ground. “I know a lot of your stuff in the warehouse wasn’t salvageable.”

“It’s okay, man. No irreplaceable treasures went west in the great drug lab explosion of ninety-six.”

“Not even your little black book,” Jim said roguishly. And now you’re changing the subject, Blair thought. Message understood; as much Ellison personal history has been revealed as you’re comfortable with.

Blair couldn’t resist the lightest of respectful touches to the center rosette. Jim lifted one brow in query.

“Mom and I – we had a lot of great times, but grandparents weren’t one of them. And Naomi’s always traveled light.”

“Well, hey.” It came out unexpectedly shyly from Jim. “It might have been Grammy’s star but stars shine down on everyone, right?”

Blair felt himself flush with pleasure at this gesture, followed by embarrassment at his pleasure. “That’s unexpectedly deep of you, Jim. You got that from a greeting card, I bet.”

Jim only lightly cuffed Blair across the back of the head at this sally. “Beer’s getting low. You said you’d buy this time around. Can’t run out at Christmas.”

“No,” Blair said obediently, taking one last look at the worn, spindly tinsel star hanging in the kitchen. “We can’t run out of beer at Christmas.”


End file.
